


Burn the Louvre

by alchimie



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: D/s themes, Fight Club - Freeform, Fight Club AU, M/M, Sex, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchimie/pseuds/alchimie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The eighth rule of fight club is if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn the Louvre

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on AO3 and my first finished piece of writing in far too long. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I do not own the premise or any of the ideas associated with "fight club" in this fic. This idea is based off the book (and also movie) by Chuck Palahniuk. I don't own any fight club related themes nor do I own the character mentioned. Title comes from a quote from the book.

The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club.

I stare down at the maple desktop; the surface is way too shiny. I’m sitting in a cubicle, and I feel like I’m in the haunted mansion because these walls have got to be stretching. Or closing in. Something is becoming distorted and maybe it’s just my own mind. Wednesdays always leave me on edge. Hump day is far worse than any Monday but it’s also far better. The day is long and shitty but when night finally comes it comes in a heavenly blaze of glory.

The second rule of fight club is you _do not_ talk about fight club.

Some times it relaxes me on days like today when the clock is moving particularly slow. Going through the rules, that is. I know I could say them back and forth in my sleep. Five months I’ve been going every week—roughly twenty weeks all together. I’ve heard them twenty times, and after tonight I will have heard them twenty one times. It’s weird to me, thinking about it now. Time has always struck me as a little strange because I can think back to any event and the event feels both like it just occurred and like it happened ages ago, in another life. My first visit was a year ago and a moment ago. It feels so far away but with so much clarity it mustn’t have been that far away at all.

The third rule of fight club is if someone says “stop” or goes limp, taps out the fight is over.

My fingers are jittery as they tap at the perfectly shiny maple, and I know I really shouldn’t have gone for that third cup of coffee during my break because I’m all strung out like an addict. 

I used to be an addict; pills, booze, coke, heroin, you name it and at some point or another there’s a good chance that I tried it. I was always on again off again—I could never really kick it, but I always kept trying and trying like I was some fucked up little engine that could, except for that fact that I couldn’t. Not for a while at least, not until I found it. It’s not that it’s been everything, but something about the release, the complete freedom of it made me finally feel like I could be free again. I am free again. I’m free to choose my own addiction, and it is the new addiction that I want to dictate me.

The forth rule of fight club is only two guys to a fight.

My tongue wanders over to the gap in between two of my teeth. Surprisingly enough considering their pretty small size, I haven’t lost a whole lot of teeth from fighting. Some of the guys there smile and it’s like a broken keyboard lining the top and bottom of their mouths, yet with how they’re smiling you know those fucking keyboards aren’t just mistakes but rather battle scars in the long internal wars that we’re all fighting there. Maybe one day I’m gonna be like that rest of them, with broken keyboard teeth. Maybe one day none of us are gonna have teeth, just popping in dentures when we’re still in our thirties. I can think of worse fates than that.

The fifth rule of fight club is one fight at a time.  
My eyes finally cave in to the pressure and take a quick peek at the clocks that hangs on one of the contorting walls. 4:45 p.m. Just fifteen more minutes until freedom, until I’m free to leave, until I can go home, that much closer to finally being there back on the battle field. If I was jittery before, I am fucking going ballistic on the inside now as the tapping of my fingers increases at triple the speed. While I get faster, the clock gets slower as the little clicks of the second hand get further and further apart as if they’re getting sick of each other.

I can practically taste sweet paradise and release on the tip of my tongue. Or maybe that’s just that third cup of coffee haunting me again. 

The sixth rule of fight club is no shirts, no shoes.

Ten more minutes. 

The seventh rule of fight club is fights will go on as long as they have to.

Five.

Every Wednesday is New Years Eve as I count down in my head waiting for the ball to drop and commence the New Year on the east coast. The second hand hits the ten; it’s time to begin the silent count down, so get the party hats and find a pretty thing to share that kiss with. New Years only comes once a year and Wednesday only comes once a week.

The second hand grazes the eleven. The ball is about to be dropped.

Then it hits the twelve.

Happy New Year.

*

The eighth rule of fight club is if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight.

We don’t see too many new faces, or at least not that often so when a tiny little kid comes sauntering in with a curious and calm look on his face it might turn a couple heads. Alright, he’s not a tiny little kid necessarily but there’s no way in heaven or hell that the damn guy is older than twenty one. My initial reaction is that he might be a teenager with the weird innocence there is to his whole appearance with his soft looking skin and eyes that are as bright and large as stars. To say the least, he’s not the average costumer, especially since the little fuck has got to be ten years younger (and ten inches smaller) than every other man staring him down in the crowded, defiled basement of the equally disgusting bar that stood above it.

For a moment he catches my gaze that’s been on him for way too long to be a friendly glance and I see something in his eyes less than innocent. I quickly look away for a few moments and wait for another opportunity to observe this fresh member to the club. The more I look the less innocent he seems in the way that his eyes are framed with purple bags and something sour still holds on to his expression. My eyes stray more over him, discovering as he pushes up his sleeves that what is exposed of his small arms is covered in colorful and mesmerizing ink that almost beckons me to move closer and try to take a closer look, figure out what the hell exactly the designs are as I have them more in focus. That’s another way in which he stood out in the crowd; most of the men are bare from the waist up and he is sporting a black long sleeve shirt. Must not have really gotten the memo.

He turns his head and his long black hair reveals a blob of ink on his neck. It looks like some sort of bug and the desire to examine it spreads like a virus inside of me. I stare more at his neck until it becomes clear to me that the little black blob was actually a scorpion, then his eyes catch me again but this time they’re unreadable.

The unspoken leader of this group of tattered and beaten men stands in the middle of the circle, circling around like a predator as he barks out the rules that I hear for the twenty first time.

The eighth rule of fight club is if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight.

New boy challenges me.

There are a few fights before us, each one holding my interest for the most part, though I can’t help but allow my curious eyes to stray away from me and study new boy some more. There’s a strange feeling of almost guilt inside of me for nearly gawking at him, but I’m not trying to check the little fucker out, there’s just something magnetic about him that makes you want to keep looking and memorize every line and color on him. Maybe I was checking the little fucker out, okay, it’s not every day that one comes across appealing men in a place dedicated to beating the shit out of each other.

The first fight is between two men, both very tall and both almost awkwardly skinny. Along with their body composition, their stature and movements seem to mimic one another: guy number one moves left, guy number two moves left, one goes for the punch with a right hand fist, two blocks the punch with his right hand. I’m reminded of sitting in on my cousin’s acting classes as a child, watching them standing face-to-face with their partners and moving in sync with each other. The fight goes on for years, neither one seeming to tire from their dances around each other until the very end when guy number two finally finds a weak spot and exploits it, gaining the upper hand finally and getting his companion to tap out and end the show.

The fight that is to follow was far less graceful. The cast of this particular performance are near opposites in nearly every way possible. The man to be challenged was easily the largest member of the circle, both vertically and horizontally. He can’t be under six and a half feet tall and he’s got shocking blue eyes under a shaggy mess of blonde hair. His complexion is so white he could be a ghost—and honestly, if I came across this ghoul in the middle of a dark night I would be crying to Bill Murray to bust him. On the other hand, the challenger is lanky and petite, the only person in the room that could challenge him for the title of the shortest fighter being New Guy. His eyes are dark, his skin is dark, and his hair is barely existent with how closely buzzed it is. There should be sheepishness in his big doe eyes, some sort of meekness or weariness but instead there’s a strong defiance. After all, _he_ is the challenger in this case.

Ghost man proves to be the machine of brute force his appearance suggests. The first half of the fight is simply comprised of him beating the living shit out of his challenger, fists flying down and crashing against the little man’s face again and again and again until his dark complexion is now red with blood. The little man takes it, though, with a calm and patient expression, like he’s just watching the fight rather than participating in it, if you could even call what he’s doing participating. He takes each hit, dodging what he could but not seeming too fazed about being hit a myriad of times. If you were watching real closely at one moment, I’m pretty damn sure that he let out a yawn. A motherfucking yawn. The kid waits patiently until the ghost finally shows some weakness, his hits getting weaker and weaker and his panting getting louder. This kid may be a masochist, but he’s also a fucking strategist and like lightening he shoots out several bolts at the ghost man until he’s gaining the upper hand and their blood is being mixed together until the larger of the two finally has to call it quits and taps out.

With blood pouring out of his nose, the little man smiles and exits the circle. The large man needs assistance before he can exit. Someone’s gonna be requiring a week’s worth of sick days.

I barely have enough time to gawk at the amazing brawl which had just taken place in front of me. I’d seen both of these people fight before, but an unspoken rule of the club’s that you usually fight in your weight class, or at least close. Not to say that there hasn’t been any ballsy little guys in the past, but no one had ever beaten ghost man before. Soon enough, though, I’m swept into the middle of the circle whether by a few shoves or by my own feet dragging me in I can’t really recall.

By the time that he advances into the middle of the circle to face me, he’s smartened up enough to discard his shirt, revealing more intricate patterns of ink covering his upper arms, shoulders, chest, waist, and I can only assume his back, too. I know this is no time to stare, especially when twenty or thirty pairs of eyes are glued on to me, anticipating the first blow, but I sneak a few glances just to see what these designs are. 

There’s a flame on his upper chest, with the word hope written underneath it. There are two birds at his waist, one looking like an angel on one side and the other looking like a devil on the other. There are words wrapping around his waist, too, but I only see the word “And” written between the two birds. There’s a fist flying towards my face, hitting me square in the jaw.

Ouch.

New boy isn’t too patient, I guess.

I catch his hand right as he’s going for a second punch to the same spot, the move pretty damn predictable. I can’t imagine that he’s been in too many fights before, but then again I’d never fought anyone like this before coming in here. And I sure as hell can’t say that I’m particularly trained in any sort of style, but a few good fights have taught me something, whatever that something is. 

Still clutching his right hand tightly in one of my own, I use the other to strike him right in the gut, hitting the devil bird before releasing his fist. He coils over for only a second, trying to shoot at my face only unsuccessfully again. The fight goes on like this for quite some time; new boy tosses everything he has at me in unskilled and expected shots and I take him down easily each and every time, returning the blows with far more victories than he. Of course, from time to time he’ll slip past me and land a blow, but he’s still not doing nearly as much damage to me as I’m doing to him.

As I’m hovering over the boy, pinning him down to the floor beneath me, an odd realization smacks me in the face much stronger than any of his hits so far. When I fight, I’m not just whaling on the person for twenty minutes. Well, I am literally, but figuratively I’m fighting a different kind of fight. Maybe this sounds more fucked up than the literal alternative, but when I’m up against someone in the middle of the circle, I’m not really fighting against _them_ in my head. I’m picturing myself, my past self, my demons, everything I really hate about myself.

That sounds fucked up, I know. But it’s the only way I can really fight the skeletons in my closet without the self destruction I used to rely on. Instead of destroying myself physically, I destroy my old self mentally. And the face of whoever I’m up against.

New boy is doing something to me, though. There’s something that’s far too... Distracting. 

I can’t imagine myself under me. I can’t fight my own demons. He’s just too _there_. I’m too aware of him, burning up like the fire of rage and passion he is as he refuses to relent in his struggles, even as he is beaten time and time again. He still struggles for dominance even as he’s forced to submit. Something about this kid refuses to go unnoticed.

It’s fucking terrible.

My attacks against this kid getting angrier and angrier, and I’m almost worried I’m gonna try and destroy his face before I’m done here, but I just can’t cool myself down because this is not what I’m here for. This is my release, my way of handling myself, and he’s fucking _ruining_ it. 

There’s another weird realization that hits me as I’m, well, hitting him.

Things aren’t going the way they should, and I’m not getting out my frustrations in the way that I want to, yet deep down I’m enjoying this.

I like this little guy struggling underneath me to gain the upper hand, even while I’m taking him down and keeping him down. I like the fiery look in his eyes as he glares up at me, probably wanting nothing more than to finally best me. I like the way he can’t best me. I like the way I’m completely dominating him in this very moment, and there is absolutely nothing he can do. And I like the way I continue to dominate him until eventually he has to give up as he cannot physically take it a second any longer and must tap out.

I am beyond fucked up.

I love it.

*

I’m sitting in my bed and cannot for the life of me get to sleep. It’s not because of my caffeine intake or because I’m in pain from what had occurred a few hours previous. It’s not the bruising and it’s not my old struggle with insomnia dealing with even more personal demons. Which, the last one would make more sense after tonight, having not been able to utilize my normal means of coping. In fact, I didn’t even think much about myself, exactly. No skeleton bones were rattling in my closet, but instead there was something else completely fucking with my head.

All I could think about was the new guy, pinned down underneath me. That look in his eyes that I had seen before, but never really fully realized the look that he was giving me. It was a challenging look, saying something that must have been pretty close to “come the fuck at me” but with a hint of something else, some other substance fogging up what should have been a clear message floating in the hazel fires. There was a message of something that I had certainly not seen at all so far in my time spent at fight club. There was a sort of desire clouding up the message, a wanting to be defeated? No, not defeated, to be conquered, to be _dominated_.

My breath hitches as I stair up at the blur of the ceiling fan spinning in its endless circles, the light of the moon outside illuminating my room. I must be bullshitting myself, I’m almost certain of this because there was no way in hell that fight was as kinky as I’m trying to picture it in my head. I know for a fact my mind drops down to the gutter some times, particular times like now when I haven’t enough fingers to count the months which I’ve gone without fucking someone. 

I’m obviously just suffering from a really bad case of needing to get some, and that’s why I start to rub at the front of my boxers. My eyelids droop shut so that all I see is the man underneath me, that hungry look I must have made up being pretty much enough for me to start getting hard. As I full out start to palm myself through the thin red material, my imagination takes control and alters the situation a bit; now, instead of being surrounded by the circle, we are in the middle of a dark and empty room. Instead of going for blows to his stomach and face, my force is being used to tear at his clothing and then hold him down once I have him stark naked. His eyes are still full of that “come the fuck at me” look, but along with that bizarre desire, there is full out lust. I imagine myself naked then, too, and next I’m flipping him over onto his stomach. He’s up on his knees while I shove my fingers in to stretch him out before my cock takes their spot. 

In real time, this is when I grab myself and jerk off, feeling shame and relief as I try to get myself to come as fast as I could. Images of the man plague my every thought until I’m biting hard on my lips to keep myself from making a sound as I come hard, staining my red boxers. I’m not completely sure why I stay silent—no one else is living with me, and I’m pretty sure the man that lives in the apartment closest to my room got kicked out last week, but the act feels so dirty and wrong that I feel like I’m a teenager again first experimenting with masturbating and scared that at any moment a parent or my brother might come knocking hard at my door.

As wrong and twisted as it is, I finally get to sleep once I finish.

*

Seeing someone outside of the circle is always one of the strangest things. You can never mention anything and most of the time it’s not even a smart idea to talk at all, but you exchange looks with one another and some sort of moment occurs. A mutual understand, of sorts, as you look over each other’s scars and fresh injuries.

This strange feeling is heightened when it’s someone you’ve fought recently.

This strange feeling is heightened even more when it’s someone you masturbated to not even forty eight hours ago.

Today is Friday and I got off of work early, so I decided to stop at the grocery store and get that out of the way so I can have a completely stay-at-home-and-do-nothing Saturday. It’s pretty relaxing being clean and having the weekend to just sit around and ponder life instead of lying around bars pondering who in the room might let me do a rail off their cock. Besides, it’s also nice to start a day off with a fresh box of over-processed and preservative-packed toaster waffles. I’m lacking in the frozen breakfast department. I’d been anticipating that I’d be one of the only people wandering through the grocery store on a Friday evening. I had not been anticipating that one of the only other people in the aisles of the grocery store would be new guy.

It’s in the spice section that I first see him. I don’t notice him at first until out of the corner of my eye I notice a familiar set of tattooed fingers going to grab some cinnamon. Initially, I go still and feel unsure of whether or not I should look over to my side to confirm who the person beside me is. What’s the proper etiquette for this sort of thing? Should I acknowledge him? Is it the courteous thing to do in a situation like this? I risk a glance after a few moments contemplation, and he’s looking away.

The next time I encounter him, I’m coming up to the checkout line and he’s looking upset, pleading with the lady at the register about something. The lady’s not having any of it, though; she’s looking down on him with fierce almond-shaped eyes that look like they have seen too much bullshit from little punks like him. I approach the scene slowly, finally hearing what this dispute is about.

“Come on, like—It’s just ten fucking bucks, okay? I did a little bit of the math wrong, but I need all of this. Can’t I just put it on store credit or something?”

Her glare intensifies. “Sir, you are just going to have to put an item back. We don’t do store credit.”

“Look, I will pay you back, I swear. You can fucking document this shit, I will sign a God damn contract if you want me to! I just—Please, I’ll even come back in five minutes.”

Maybe it’s something really stupid for him to get so strung out about, maybe he’s trying to scam this woman in some really idiotic way, but still I can’t keep myself from stepping forward and tapping his shoulder. He spins around and before he has a second to speak I’m handing the ten into his hands. The guy goes silent for a few moments, eyes darting back between my face and the money I placed in his hand in a way that’s almost comical. Eventually his eyes settle on my face as he mutters out a small, “Thanks.”

He grabs all his bags and then he’s out in record time. The woman grumbles about him as I check out my groceries fairly quickly and silently.

New guy hasn’t gone far by the time I’m outside and heading toward my car. I catch sight of him not even half a block down the sidewalk—the fucker is walking. With more groceries than he weighs, probably. I try to tell myself to just forget about it, hey Gerard you already did the whiney brat a favor, but still I put my bags away quickly before I drive out in the direction he’s walking and slow down so I’m beside him. He doesn’t look, whether it’s because he doesn’t notice me or because he doesn’t want to notice me I have no clue. Still, I have to roll down the window and shout out of it to get his attention. “Hey! Hey, kid.”

He stops and then I hit the break as our eyes meet. He must have actually not known I was right beside him because he nearly drops the bags on the ground. I feel bad for him, since I wouldn’t want him to drop his cinnamon everywhere.

“You need a ride?”

He’s silent for a few moments as he gives me a look that I can’t quite pin point. After what feels like ages of consideration, he gives me a jerky nod than gets in. This might be creepy of me, but after you beat a guy to the ground in a secret club you might as well consider yourselves sort of acquaintances.

“Maybe you should have considered putting a few things back on the shelf if you were gonna be walking home,” I say with a small smile. The comment is supposed to be light and teasing, but he gets immediately defensive.

“My cousin is really fucking sick and I’m trying to please her ‘cause she’s still letting me stay with her, okay?” he snaps. Someone must be having a shitty day.

I’m smart enough not to press issues like that with a dude close enough to pull out a knife on me or some shit and take my car easily (maybe this wasn’t the best idea, I can’t just trust this little douche because he’s joined us), so I just leave it at that. We sit in silence for a few moments in a stopped car before I finally speak up. “You know. You’re gonna have to at least tell me where you need to go.”

“Oh.” His scowl melts in to a flustered expression as he quickly rattles off some address. I’ve never heard of the street, so he sighs and just tells me he’ll point out the way. It’s not very fair, he assures me, maybe just a few miles. Still a lot for a little guy carrying a metric ton of food.

I turn on to the first street he points out, and then there is a heavy silence filling the car which is more uncomfortable than going outside in snow gear in the middle of July. Seeing that he obviously isn’t going to start the conversation, I decide to take the initiative. “I’m Gerard, by the way.”

He glances at me for only a brief second before replying. “Frank.” The way he says the word so curtly makes me let out a laugh before I can stop myself. He looks back at me again with the scowl from before. “What?”

I try to shrug it off. “It’s really nothing, just. Your name seems fitting, you know? Frank. You seem really straight to the point. I like it. It fits you.”

“Are you mocking me?” His tone sounds more confused than malicious.

Shaking my head, I smile over at him again, hoping to ease some of the weird tension. “No, really. I like the name. It does suit you.” He gives me a strange look before just nodding, giving up this topic, leaving me to have to bring up a new one to keep the silence from returning. “So, Frank, what do you do?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

He looks down at his hands, which are fiddling with each other in his lap.

“I’m in between jobs.”

I nod, trying to give him a sympathetic look without seeming over the top about it. I personally don’t like getting a lot of sympathy when I’m going through any sort of shit, people seem so pretentious about it that I rather not have it, but I realize it’s some sort of nice manner to show it to others, so I try my best to give him just the right amount of pity without being annoying.

There’s another break of silence before he’s finally the one to speak up and end it. “What do you do?”

What do I do?

I stare at walls and paper forty hours a week. I contemplate homicide or suicide, depending on the time of the day. I pray for freedom with every tick of that infernal clock hanging above my head. I talk to fucking imbeciles—I’m sorry, I guess the PC term for them is “customers”—all day and hope that someday I fall on something so that I can sue the pants off someone and never work another day in my life.

“I work in an office. Car insurance stuff, all that thing.”

Frank nods, faking interest. No one is honestly interested in an office job.

After that, there’s not much else to talk about. Frank points out the last few turns until we arrive at his destination. He thanks me and then he’s gone.

*

Frank is everywhere.

I see him at the Starbucks one morning grabbing a coffee. I see him at the 7/11 buying a pack of cigarettes. I see him on the street walking a little white dog. I see him walking out of a building as I pass by with a paper in his hand. I see him walking out of another building the same way the next day. I see him when I go out to lunch with my “buddies” from work, sitting in a booth on the other side of the restaurant with a pale looking woman with bags under her eyes. I see him at the 7/11 once again, another pack of cigarettes. I see him at fight club, but he’s fighting someone else.

Sometimes we’ll share a look. Sometimes we’ll even approach each other and share a few words. “Good morning.” “Good afternoon.” “How are you?” “It’s raining again.” It’s neighbor conversation—you want to be polite but there’s really no depth to anything you’re saying to one and other.

For the first time in months I go home that Wednesday feeling unsatisfied. Yes, I fought, I got out the energy, I beat up myself, yadda yadda yadda. I didn’t fight Frank, though. I didn’t get to see that weird look in his eyes or feel him pinned down to the ground underneath me. I feel like a pervert for wanting that again, for thinking about that so much and having a few more jerk off sessions with it on my mind, but I can’t shut out these terrible thoughts as much as I wish I could.

I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep. 

On Thursday, I am irritable and just a little bit out of it. My boss says I don’t look good, that I look sick. This is the first time she’s dared to comment about my appearance, since most of the time when I don’t look good it’s because I’m sporting a scary looking cut across my face or black eye. 

On Friday, I’m not even there for an hour before she practically begs me to take a sick day, to rest up, to come back “refreshed and ready to work” on Monday morning. I’m out of there like lightning out of a cloud.

On Saturday, I see Frank at Starbucks. As I sit down at my table with my latte, I share a look with him before he joins me. This is the first time he’s actually sat down or seemed like he wants to engage in a conversation deeper than just the weather and how we’re feeling.

“You don’t look so good there.”

A hard smile spreads across my face as I sip down the sugary caffeine. “You sound like my boss.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” asks Frank.

“Now you sound like my grandpa.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me what’s up before I dump this shit on to your head.”

I hesitate, looking down at my still hot drink. I would dare a sip to try and stall, but I know it’s still going to burn my tongue like lava going in my mouth, so I don’t risk it. “You know, just a couple restless nights. Haven’t been feeling the best physically, must be coming down with some sort of cold. I’m not in my prime anymore.” I add in the little joke at the end, hoping that will make me seem even more confident, but Frank has this suspicious look. He may not be as old as I am, but it’s apparent to me that he understands things as well as I do. He’s “been around the block” as my dad would say.

“Past your prime? You can’t be over 30.”

I smile, honestly amused by that statement. “I’m actually 32.”

“Really?” Frank says, surprise etched on his face. “I would have guessed, like,25. I didn’t think you were that much older than me. I’m 23. Just graduated last spring, you know.” He pauses before amending the statement, “Well, actually, I didn’t graduate, but I like to tell people I did. Switched majors a lot, and eventually just gave up. I’m not good for any of that. But more importantly, you do not look physically ill.” He gives me a knowing smile. “I know that kind of sick. I was in and out of the hospital my whole childhood. You’re not sick, something’s fucking with your head.” The smile widens as he basks in the glory of seeing through my facade. “What’s eating you?”

_You. You’re fucking ruining my life, somehow._

“Work is stressing me out.”

“Is it your boss? Are they getting to you?”

_No, it’s you. You’ve ruined fight club for me, and I can’t stop thinking about you in disgusting ways._

“Yeah, I don’t know what to do about her.”

_Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! I know what I have to do. I have to pin you up against a wall and—_.

“Damn, that sucks, man. Hey, I know what you need, a night out. Get out and just—“

_Fuck you against the walls of my apartment._

“—Have a couple beers or something, you know? Relax.”

“I don’t drink.” 

He nods, thinking for a second before he makes a new suggestion. “Maybe just a regular night out with a nice guy then? Something to get your mind off the stress and all. Are there any movies you wanna see? The theaters are full of shit right now, but hey I love making fun of shitty movies. If you’re, like, you know, into that sort of thing. Going out with dudes to crappy movies.”

He’s got this nervous look on his face that’s befuddling me for a few moments before I get smacked in the face with a realization. This kid is asking me out.

“I’m not into going out with dudes to crappy movies.” His face drops like the New Year’s ball before I even have time to finish my statement, which I quickly do in hopes that he won’t look so disappointed. (Yet the look is oddly cute on the guy. It’s like a puppy watching his owner go out while leaving him behind at home. Tragically adorable). “Movies are way too expensive and there’s nothing out right now that I want to pay ten bucks just to see, let alone drop another fifteen on too buttery popcorn and a diet coke that I could get for a buck at the gas station. You should come over to my place, I got a nice movie collection.”

In a matter of minutes, the date is set and then we each get up and go our own separate ways. He has all the information he needs to get to my place, so for me all it ends up being is a matter of cleaning up my apartment so it doesn’t smell like cat piss—I don’t even fucking own a cat—and going to grab some popcorn and soda from the grocery store. Oddly enough, our dear friend Miss Fuck-Your-Bullshit is there and checks out my few items. I glance at her name tag and read her name: Harmony. The name doesn’t seem fitting.

I told Frank seven o’clock. I’m all ready to go by six thirty. I find myself in awful limbo of waiting, pacing around my apartment in hopes that the clock will speed itself up. I feel like I’m just off at work again, glaring down the clock as I anticipate the new hour. I try sitting, I try turning on the TV, and I try obsessing over little details around my house to make it look perfect. Nothing consumes my mind enough for the half hour. Just like work. I even try going over the rules, as silly as that is. That becomes the only thing to calm me, but the clock is still my main focus.

7:05. 

He’s not here yet. Oh god, he’s not coming. He’s blowing me off, isn’t he?

I glance outside and see that it’s raining pretty heavy.

He doesn’t hate me. It’s just the rain.

7:10.

7:15.

Did something happen to him out in the rain? If he got mugged and stabbed, it’s entirely my fault. Fuck, I gave him my number but he never gave me his. I can’t check to see if he’s all right. What a fucking idiot I am, I should have asked. He might get lost along the way, who knows!

7:35.

He’s dead. It’s my fault. He’s dead and it’s my fault.

7:45.

There’s a knock on the door, and I jump up even though I’m already standing. I’d been too consumed in thoughts of Frank being in mortal danger. I quickly scramble over to the door, not wasting a moment of time.

Frank isn’t bloody or missing a limb like I’d imagined, but rather he’s dripping wet and giving me a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I got a little held up...”  
I wave it off, offering him back a more confident smile like I had not been spending the past forty five minutes being convinced that the young man had been left to bleed in a gutter somewhere.

“It’s all right, it wasn’t that long anyway. Hey, you go pick out a movie and I can go pop some popcorn and shit. What would you like to drink? I bought a liter of Diet Coke, if that’s cool?” I gesture over toward the rack of DVDs I have standing beside the mediocre television set. Excess isn’t completely my thing, but when it comes to movies I’m too far gone to care. The fact of the matter is I probably have enough DVDs to last me a summer without a single moment of sleep or any piss breaks. 

“Coke sounds good, hey uh. I’m soaked.” While this was stating the obvious, I then realize I have offered pretty much nothing to help him in that respect and I feel like the worst host possible. “Can I get like, a towel or something? I don’t know, I don’t want to get your couch wet.”

I take a step towards him, not meaning to be creepy but soon realizing the fact that my hands come up to touch his shirt might make the man uncomfortable. “Damn, you’re not lying. Hey, if you want I could give you some clothes to borrow and we could throw those in the drier?”

He stares at me blankly for a few moments before replying in a small voice. “Oh, well, yeah that might be good. Do you have anything that might fit?”

“Hold on.”

I’m not completely oblivious; it’s apparent to me that he is in fact acting really awkward and weird about this idea, which is understandable. We’ve had two real conversations, not really fully developed our relationship to the point where sharing clothes is on the agenda, but I still don’t want the kid to freeze and nothing is worse than wet jeans. Frank’s too petite for most of my stuff, but I figure a shirt that’s a little snug on me and sweats which have strings around the waist will work. He might trip, but at least his pants won’t fall down. That’s the last thing we need on this first date. Is this a first date? 

Whatever.

I return to where Frank is still standing, shivering in front of the door. The temperature of my apartment might not help him, either. So, I happen to like it pretty cold. I never had much company over other than my brother from time to time, so it never really became much of an issue in the past. Handing over the clothes to the younger man, I point to my right and say, “Bathroom’s over there. Just hand me the wet clothes when you’re done and then we can figure out a movie and get everything set, yeah?”

With a timid smile, he nods and then walks off.

*

Frank happens to have a superb taste in movies.

We spend at least an hour just discussing movies before any one is picked. His taste centers around good old horror—but not just any sort of horror, no sir, good old _classic_ horror before special effects got too advanced and the movies became all about how much gore we can throw at you as opposed to the psychological types of thrills. The discussion was good, but the best part was just seeing how Frank’s eyes lit up when he talked about the movies he loved. You could tell he practically creamed his pants whenever he thought about Hitchcock (but not the Birds, no fuck the Birds, he’d said, worst plot ever he had practically screamed at me). The discussion of Hitchcock led to us inevitably popping in Psycho, which may be cliché but a classic is a classic and we just can’t deny that.

He cuddles a lot during the movie, whether consciously or not I’m not completely sure. It’s still unbelievably endearing and it takes everything inside of me not to wrap an arm around him. Eventually, the movie ends, though, but the storm comes back so Frank decides to stick around a little while more.

“It’s getting kind of late,” I inform him as I get up to take the disc out of the player and put it away. “Maybe you should stay or something. Even if it clears up soon, you shouldn’t be out that late walking around, you know. We don’t exactly live in Candyland.” The idea is logically, so I’m not just trying to come up with an excuse to make him stay longer. Though, I do really want him not to leave just yet.

His eyes move to the door before quick hands pull his phone out of his pocket to check the time. “It is pretty late, I guess... I’ll call home real quick, okay?” To give him some time and space, I make my way to the kitchen with the bowl of popcorn that is now reduced to a shallow pile of unpopped kernels. My kitchen has yet to become luxurious enough to have an operating dishwasher, so I just go at it by hand, figuring by the time I’m finished, Frank’s call will have ended.

After the bowl finds its way back to the cabinet, I return to Frank to find him holding something in his hand, but he’s turned away so I can’t see exactly what it is. “What’s that?” I ask, standing behind him and peeking over his shoulder.

I’m right behind him, and I can almost feel his skin prickle up at my presence so close to him. He doesn’t even need to answer me since I see the picture quite easily. It’s a drawing I’d done—several years ago, of course—for an idea I’d had at the time. The woman in it is white everywhere, from her skin to her hair to the violin she has propped up in her arm. Her name escapes me, though I feel like it started with a V. “Someone’s been digging through my drawers,” I accuse, keeping my tone light so as not to seem mad at the smaller man.

Though it’s clear I’m not mad, he still gets defensive and worried. “I saw a little corner sticking out and—well, I got curious. Did someone give this to you?”

“I drew it.”

He looks back at me over his shoulder. “It’s really good. I didn’t know that you’re an artist.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “I’m not an artist. Not anymore. Wanted to go to art school as a kid, but my dad insisted I got a _real_ profession, what a load of shit that was.”

I see a small smile emerging on Frank’s lips. “It’s a shame. You seem really talented.” He places it down on the desk which he procured it from and turns around slowly. We’re face to face now, so close that we’re practically breathing on each other. No, we _are_ breathing on each other. His lips twitch like he’s gonna say something else, but the little movement sends an impulse through me and I just lose it.

My lips press hard into his, like our mouths were magnetic. Frank doesn’t see this coming, going stiff with surprise for a few seconds before a wave of relief crashes on to me at the feeling of him kissing back, his mouth opening ever so slightly against mine. Pressing in to him, I force him to lean back against the desk he’d been snooping through a few minutes prior. I hadn’t realized it before, but in this moment it becomes apparent to me that I’d really been dying to do this most of all ever since I first entered the circle with him. His lips are just as soft as they looked and the cold touch of the metal lip ring sends a feeling through me that I can’t even begin to describe. So much tension, so much built up need and desire was finally coming out right now, out of fucking nowhere.

Then, he turns his head down, and the stream of desire is suddenly blocked by a dam. Taking the obvious hint, I move away, giving the small man the space he probably needs while also feeling guilty as hell for losing my cool there. A silence fills the room like a fog for the next few minutes before he looks at me once again.

“I know we’re not supposed to fucking talk about it or whatever,” Frank says, trying to look confident but his soft eyes hold uncertainty, “But when I fought you, there was something... I don’t know how to describe it, you know? I don’t know exactly what it was, but, like.” He stops, struggling over how to explain himself properly. “Like, I kind of liked it, you know? There was something just different about it. And when I fought someone else the next week I didn’t get it. It was only with you. Some kind of spark, I guess.”

At first I’d been a little scared of what Frank might say, but now I can see that we’re on the exact same page. “I know what you mean.” I take a cautious step forward, not making any fast movements so that he could push me away or tell me to back the fuck off if needed. “Something about you, Frank...” Now we’re back to being nearly pressed together and feeling the heat coming off his body is too much.

_Something about your drives me completely insane_ , I think, and it takes a few moments for me to realize that I had actually said that out loud, too. 

He tries to take the lead this time with the kiss, but I am having absolutely nothing of that. With more force than originally intended, I push him back, but turn him in a new direction so he’s against the wall rather than the desk. In the moment my thoughts go back to our fight while we fight for dominance in the kiss. Frank tries so hard again and again to try and best me, but I know I’m in control here and he knows it too, and from the small sounds he’s making while I yank on his hair and let my tongue explore his mouth I can tell he’s enjoying himself. Still, I don’t want to assume too much, so I back away (which he groans at) to ask him softly, “If you’re going to stay here, you can come join me in my bed if you want. If not, the couch is available and it’s comfortable.”

He smiles against my lips. “No, no, I’d rather follow you to your bed. It’s pretty late, why don’t we go there now?”

I don’t need another cue after that, so I grab him by the hand and lead him in the direction of my bedroom, resting all urges to feel him up along the way. It isn’t much, really, but I’ve got a queen sized bed that’s not too shabby so for tonight’s possible list of purposes, it can be useful. I push him down on the bed, smirking at him as I slowly move on top of him, sucking hard at his bottom lip while one of my hands go exploring downward so that my palm can press into his crotch. I’m very thankful right about now that I gave him sweats instead of jeans, because I can feel his hard-on easily through the material. I keep this teasing going for a few moments before I back away from the bed, leaving him alone on it.

“Strip,” I command, feeling a little nervous deep down over how he’ll react, but making sure my face doesn’t betray me and show these emotions. He looks up at me, dumbfounded at first by my backing away before nodding and tugging at the shirt he was wearing. The shirt was pretty baggy on him, so it comes off without much trouble. The same goes with the pants, which he kicks off. He leaves his boxers on, though, but I’m not going to have any of that. 

“All of it.” 

He nods, and soon enough his underwear drop to the floor and I can see him shiver from being completely exposed to the cool air of my apartment.

I approach him again, leaning over him so I’m just barely pressed to him. Giving him the sweetest smile I can while being extremely turned on, I stroke his cheek. Frank closes his eyes and leans into the touch, and I swear I can hear him fucking purring. “You’re far too pretty to be fighting every week. I don’t think I want you fighting with anyone but me. Someone might hurt your pretty face, and we just can’t have that. How does that sound?”

“I’d like to be just yours,” Frank murmurs, a faint blush on his cheek from confessing this.

“That can be arranged, if that’s what you want.”

I back away again, but this time it’s so I can discard my own clothes. He’s watching me as I do it, eyes glued to my hands as they pull the shirt over my head and then slowly tug the zipper of my pants down. My pants and my briefs fall down together before I return to my spot on top of Frank, pressing my lips to his once again. The kisses become harder, more demanding and needy. Meanwhile, the younger man underneath me is trying to press up against my thigh, but I stop this immediately with a smack to his hip. I do take note that his patience is wearing thin, though, tugging on his bottom lip before pulling away to speak. 

“Have you done this before?” I ask, my tone breathy and sounding a little husky from all the kissing.

He lets out a little laugh, sounding just as breathless. “I know I’m a baby compared to you, but I’m not that young. I have.”

I find it hard not to break my controlling mode for a second, so I give in and let out my own confession. “It’s been a little while for me. Well, not a huge while, but still. If you need something or I’m not doing something the way you want or if you wanna stop at any time, you tell me, okay?”

With a slight smile, Frank nods before I go back to yanking hard at his hair and sucking at his neck so that it’ll be covered in marks when he wakes up in the morning.

I keep up my attack on his neck until the other is whimpering and I can feel him trembling from his efforts to stay still underneath me. I appreciate these efforts, so I decide it’s time to finally give him what he wants. Kissing his forehead once before leaning over, I rummage through the drawer in my bedside table until I find the box of condoms and the mostly full thing of lube. I take one of the condoms from the box along with the lube before placing them down to the side when I situate myself between Frank’s legs. I look up at him and see him biting at his swollen and red lips. Lips that got swollen and red from me.

All of this is making me impatient, too, so I don’t hesitate any longer before squirting a generous amount of lube over my fingers. “Turn around and get on your knees,” I tell him, moving over to give him enough space to do this. When he’s settled into this new position, I stick the first finger in, kissing down his spine as I do so. He’s incredibly tight around my finger, and I swear I could probably moan just from this single sensation. My impatience grows more, but I know I have to do this right and not rush anything on this step. Once he’s adjusted enough, another finger slips in and I begin making scissor motions with my two fingers to stretch him out more. In enough time another finger joins the mix and I feel around inside of him, loving the moans he lets out when I find the right spot.

“Are you ready now?” I whisper into his ear, brushing my fingers against his prostate while I ask.

He tries to reply, but all he can manage out is a whining noise, so he just has to nod his response.

My fingers retreat slowly, and then go to fumble with the condom. It’s never really easy to open these damned things with lube coated fingers. I still manage to rip at it soon enough and tug it on to my more than ready dick. After squirting more lube onto my fingers, I stroke it onto myself and line up to his entrance.

I take my time with the first move inside, letting him adjust completely before I start up a steady and slow rhythm. The room becomes filled with both of our moans as I rock back and forth in and out of him. He’s even tighter than I could have ever imagined. There’s no way my rushed jerk off session imaginations of how this would feel could ever compare to the real deal.

“You’re so fucking amazing,” I moan out, allowing myself to speed up ever so slightly and push ever so harder into him with each thrust. A peek over his shoulder shows me that his arms are shaking with the efforts of holding himself up. One of his arms shakes even more once the other hand sneaks down to try and stroke himself in time with the pace I’m setting, but I’m not going to have any of that either, so I swat at his hand and replace it with my own.

I pump him far too slow, just to tease him and get those lovely little whimpers out of him once more. Even when I speed up more and go in deeper, brushing up against his prostate whenever I could, I try my best to keep the same painfully slow pace with my hand until I have him begging .

“Please, fuck, Gerard, I need more please,” he whines out, trying to move his hips down into my hand.

“Just because you said please.” 

I don’t waste a second before going right to the quick tempo I’m thrusting into him at. This sends him over the edge in no time, his orgasm hitting him hard. As he rides it out and releases all over my hand and the sheets of the bed, he lets out a moan so loud he’ll probably wake everyone in my building. From that point, my thrusts get more hectic and shallower until I’m joining him over the edge, coming hard with my own strangled moan. 

Once I’m finished, I pull out and dispose of the condom. Frank finally lets his weakened arms take a break and collapses down onto the bed. The sight is so utterly perfect I almost don’t want to crawl back on the bed and disturb it, but the desire to be close to him again is too much. I crawl in beside him, turning him over so he’s on his side in front of me before I pull him in so his back is too my chest. I can tell he’s on the edge of consciousness, so I don’t say anything else but just hold him as he falls asleep.

*

Movie night, needless to say, becomes a regular thing from that point on.

Especially the second half of the evening.

Wednesdays don’t change too drastically. I still have to work on each one, and the last fifteen minutes are still the longest ones I ever live through. I’m still strung out until I finally arrive at that seedy bar and make my way into the basement. I watch Frank from across the room, not actually saying any words to him here. The leader walks through the circle, barking out the same eight lines as he has the past twenty three weeks. Two or three fights go on before Frank challenges me.

He puts up a fierce fight. But I still win.


End file.
